


I Am The Moon

by heavenlyhost



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenlyhost/pseuds/heavenlyhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fables that say an angel may only love God or forever be punished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers all the way through season seven! There's not any actual Castiel/Dean, but it is implied.

It’s strange that the smallest things are taken for granted. Castiel understands it, because he himself has taken for granted things of both a grand and very small nature. He understands that it is all of their natures to take for granted things that are, in general, insignificant.

The small drops of rain fascinate him. The way plants twist and twirl, reaching upward with flowers and petals and leaves to touch the sun, astounds him.  The way the earth spins so quickly its rotation isn’t felt, the way the moon follows, ever longing for the earth’s companionship, illuminated only by the sun.

Castiel knows what it feels like, to be the rock that follows the world, to be the darkness that is bright only because the sun is bright.

Heaven is a thing of beauty, a masterpiece so beautiful that it must change for each person. The mechanics of it are, in the end, lost on Castiel. He doesn’t understand how Heaven operates, but he thinks that is a secret that only God is privy to, a secret that perhaps he shared with his two most favored children. Michael and Lucifer are, _were_ , infinitely wise in ways that only God may know. Ironic then that they should burn. _At least they are together_. It is a comforting thought, in its own way. They are dusk and dawn, black and white, beauty and horror. Which is which is entirely debatable, but the angels didn’t hesitate to whisper in Heaven.

All creatures are prone to gossip, it would seem.

It was believed, long before the war, that they were inseparable, that nothing could step between the two closest angels, the two most beloved sons of God, so loved that they were given the ability to _see_ God. When Lucifer chose to rebel, the whispered rumors froze in place, like the moment of pause as something porcelain falls. They had all been sure that Heaven would shatter under the weight of the war, of the Fall. Michael did not kill Lucifer, but threads of prophesy said that soon enough he would.

Castiel wonders what it must have been like for God. He realizes now why God must have spoken to Joshua. God could no longer share his words with Michael, who mourned and remained hidden within Heaven’s most obscure realms, he could not speak with Lucifer, who had turned away from Heaven, from _family_. God was alone once more, and it all fell upon the _Homo sapiens_.

Earth was a magnificent thing, though. Castiel felt himself above the creatures that resided there, but not one angel hated the planet, the universe that operated on equations of genius and a certain flavor of _magic_ , which he fancied to be a word for the unexplainable. The vibrancy, the exploding life, the vibrations of sound, the sheer expanse of its capabilities was endlessly beautiful, and Castiel still fondly recalls standing there on that shoreline.

It had been a time of peace for all angels, a time still before the Fall. Michael had gifted them all with a journey to the planet, when it was still young, thriving on a life full of huge beasts, and simple Darwinian processes. Michael’s own displays of power had been magnificent, to carry down the Host as he had, to give them a shape less crushing to the planet, which was so fragile.

He remembers the water, the tide carried by the moon, as it had reached out toward his form, as small life forms had heaved themselves from the froth of the ocean. His curiosity had overwhelmed him, and there had been his big brother, there Michael had stood, staring down at him with an expression that Castiel has never been able to describe. His wings, and he was the only angel with eight, had stretched up impossibly high, had caught the winds much like the sails of human ships, and Castiel had stared up at him with all the adoration of a young seraph, a warrior looking to his general, an angel looking to the first, the _Alpha_ , as it were. Michael had smiled, at least, that was the human word for it. Castiel only remembers it as such because he so often compares it to the smile of another older brother, though this one human. The way a being’s expression could instantly make the world burn brighter, warm the darkest of places. Yes, Michael had smiled.

“Don’t step on that fish, Castiel,” he had said, the words of Enochian holding a wisdom that Castiel could not fathom. His wings had lifted forward, closer, Michael himself leaning in, sharing a secret, a small tendril of the universe, a gift unto a younger brother. “Big plans for that fish.”

The sound of a roaring engine pulls him from his thoughts, yanks away the soft memories, and his wings rise in greeting, though they remain unseen. The car drives past, is silver and full of a new technology, one that is safer for the environment, as the environment’s health is of greater concern. His fingers twitch, palms extending outward in longing, the fragile bones of his hands ache with the desire to touch. It has been so long since he has felt.

The stark coldness of rain settles into his exposed palms, only further emphasizing the lack of heat, the lack of pulse, the absence of _human life_. He feels the small bacteria there that reside in the drops of water, but they are not what he longs for. They are not green-eyed or strong-willed; they are not the _righteous man_ that the choirs of seraphs sang of. They do not bear a mark of resurrection, the mark of a human touched by angel, raised from the depths of perdition.

He walks, follows unseen paths that lead him to diners, where he thinks of Dean’s appetite, to libraries, where he thinks of Sam’s hushed tones and the quiet whisper of books as their pages were turned, to motels, where he thinks of nightmares and laughter and _family_.

His very being feels weathered.

He wonders if Lucifer felt such a longing. Now, not even _he_ is alone.

Castiel follows the paths and hopes that they will lead him to God. Eventually he finds himself in the home of Chuck. He has not been angry in so long, that the sensation, the _feeling_ , is so very foreign to him. He realizes now the charade, the _lie_ , and the home crumbles beneath his fury. He bitterly curses his father, using all the words Dean, _Dean so bright and yet so broken_ , favored as he arches his wings as though God will surely accept his challenge for a fight.

Eventually the rage ebbs, fades into nothing.

Castiel grows lonely again once he is no longer angry. The anger brought him closer to Dean, but once it’s gone, he feels nothing but emptiness, and so he follows the paths again, seeking out his god.

The bees lead him nowhere, and yet still he follows. He flies with the birds, but they take him to trees and small nests. He swims with the fish, but they show him only dark caverns and empty holes. He lingers there, in the oceans, in their darkness, because it feels no different.

Sam Winchester’s pain cannot save him from this despair, from this longing, from this forlorn feeling, this _absence_.

Dean and Sam Winchester do not exist. Their souls are gone, and yet their memories still remain. Time has passed and they are nothing to the world but the pains of an angel, a fallen seraph that can no longer fight, and no longer believe, but _feels_ and _loves_.

He finds himself on the corner of a street, reciting the words of the Winchester Gospel, giving breath to the words of God.

For years he is nothing but a madman, not that he was anything more before the judgment of these new humans. He has been insane for a long time, and he understands his insanity in an abstract way, but there is nothing he can do to rid himself of it, nor does he want to.

Eventually he gains a follower. He is young, with bright, green eyes, sandy hair, and a ferociously beautiful smile.

Castiel hatefully thinks, _You are not Dean Winchester_ , and for several days says nothing to the boy.

Eventually, though, he gives in. The man types and records him, nods and engages and asks questions.

“Is it still there?”

“What?”

“Y’know, the Impala. Is it still there?”

Castiel blinks in surprise, extends his being out across the planet to discover the answer to the boy’s question.

“Yes.”

“Can I see it? Will you take me there?”

“I do not have money.”

“You don’t need money. You’re an angel,” he whispers.

Castiel is startled, shakes his head in denial at the _accusation_.

“You _are_. You’re Castiel. You’re the angel. Please, take me.”

Castiel nods his head, promises that he will, but when he places two fingers against the young man’s head, he merely wills him to sleep instead.

His wings carry him across the planet to where the Impala rests.

Plants have grown around it, reach up toward the sun with their leaves and petals and flowers. The metal has been weathered, rusted and destroyed by the rains filled with such small life. He crawls into the Impala, breathes out the words of Enochian that are synonymous with _home_.

His wings pull inward, surrounding him and protecting the car from further damage. He does not fight, not since their deaths, but he thinks this will be a fitting end. He will fight all of earth’s great beauties so that the Impala may be safe, and he will wait.

He will wait for God, because God is all that is left.

How ironic it is that the angels, such beautiful weavers of false truths, be saints in their fables.

The fables that say an angel may only love God or forever be punished.

Castiel laughs at Dean’s wisdom, feels a new pity for Lucifer.

It seems that love does indeed break an angel.


End file.
